I write from a smoky Thameslink train stuck at East Croydon. We are non-moving for one of two reasons: either the ongoing signal failures, or the guy in the back carriage with the massive reefer has set off the internal fire alarms.
Or possibly both? [1]
I just had a really fun evening at Hoopla Impro, despite – or perhaps because of – the small audience. I don’t know why, but some of the most sparsely attended comedy shows have been my favourite ever. I suppose it’s partly the intimacy and the ephemerality that makes such a show so (potentially) unforgettable.
(The train is moving again, thank goodness).
I’d had this Tuesday in my diary for a while, as it was a chance to see my Next Level Sketch co-producer Dan do improv. But then The Krayzies – a gangster-themed improv collective with a lot of crossover membership with my own Not Suitable For Beebies – requested a guest performer for the very same bill. I immediately said yes.
What I hadn’t fully realised is The Krayzies (or bits of The Krayzies) also needed bodies for their short form possé too. And so I was on stage earlier than expected, opening the show with a few games with Hannah and the lads.
Ben kindly explained to me what they were doing just before we went on – two of the formats I was familiar with, the third was a new one on me. But I felt I’d pick it up quickly enough.
New to me was a kind of three person interview format: one the interviewer, one the interviewee, and one the person deciding when the music – aka the scene – stops. When I got my opportunity to be in the chair, I introduced myself as Terry Wogan, and interviewed Hannah, the clog dancing expert. We learned that in the Iron Age, clogs were mainly made of iron. “And the Bronze Age”, Terry asked.
“I’d rather look forwards, not back”.
The other formats were more familiar to me. One was “turn left” – something I’ve never performed, but watched often – in which you form two person scenes with the people directly to the left and right of you, and some overseer decides when the dramatic clock turns you away or towards a new scene.
I was lucky with the suggestions for both my pairings. One led to a Prince Charming style situation, in which I became so heavily laden with golden coins upon my dress that I could barely dance. The other featured a proposal from my character to one played by Ben, who fell into my character’s trap – I wasn’t proposing to him at all. I was just practicing.
The other was “extreme” new choice, in which I enjoyed joining in with the editing – and figuring out when a choice was stupid enough to be worth persevering with. I think New Choice might be one of my favourite Short Form game, even when I’m not pretending to be from Birmingham. I’d love to do it again sometime.
(I know, I know: none of this makes any sense unless you were there. But this is *my* diary. I can’t negotiate).
Elliot lent me a tie, and I put on a blazer. This is as formal as I can go. And so, to conclude the night’s entertainments, I made my debut as part of Krayzies Improv’s bunch of gansgters.
It’s a good format: clear; distinct, and stupid. You come on stage as total geezers – I channel my dad confronting someone playing music on their phone on the train – daring the audience to make eye contact with you, and making various noises and indistinct threats.
Elliot, in his guise of Krayzies leader, asks the audience for something that has annoyed them recently. The pettier the better: the stupider the thing, the more unnecessary and preposterous heft that can be placed on this pathetically spindly beast of narrative burden.
Elliot struck gold with the audience suggestion, and also his expertly chosen follow-up questions. Our minor annoyance diviner complained about having to do their taxes; we learned they have an accountant, called Anthony, and furthermore that this accountant operates out of Woking, Surrey.
Perfect. No further questions, your honour.
The idea of Krayzies is that it trades off gangster movie cliches but also tries to create a narrative around universal but very gangster-friendly themes like loyalty, family, revenge, and betrayal.
Elliot stepped straight up for the first scene, as Anthony, and quickly established the stakes alongside Hannah: Anthony was a career criminal who had recently gone straight, and entered the world of baking. He would never again cook the books – only delicious scones.
From this, to a tearoom in Devon, in which I, an unnamed tempter, tried to encourage Anthony to get creative with my own financial affairs, much to the chagrin of Anthony’s wife, Phyllis, ably played by Ben.
Much hilarity followed. What was nice about this gang was the trust involved: at no point was I ever less than 100% confident launching myself on stage for a new scene, safe in the knowledge that these people would a) have my back and b) make me look a million dollars.
I get, though, that I was the unknown quality for some of these performers, who had never done narrative improv with me before. I think it really helped that they invited me to do the short form games at the start: it helped reassure them I wasn’t a total crank, and could be trusted with the slightly more complicated roles to come – if you can describe as complicated a man obsessed with Devon, jam, and the correct way to pronounce the word “scone”.
[1] It ended up being both.
jamesofwalsh 
Leave a comment